


Bingo Squares II

by kalika_999



Series: Jack and Brock's misadventures [44]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cannibalism, Clones, Dystopia, Forced Marriage, Grief/Mourning, HYDRA Husbands, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Restraints, Reunions, Royalty, Slavery, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 01:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/pseuds/kalika_999
Summary: A beginner edition of Bingo Squares as brain exercises part deux.  Only doing three connected tropes/au's I would usually never write for; Dystopian/Zombie, Free Square (Cannibalism), Forced Marriage. There are also bonus fics of Doppleganger and Slave.





	1. Dystopian/Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> None of these are gonna hurt, I really don't operate that way except on random whims.

Jack wakes up each morning with the same thought first and foremost on his mind every single day. 

_He left him._

He’ll never let himself forget, arms pulling him back as he tried propelling forward, to run and chase Brock as that idiot ran a motorcycle away from the group yelling like it was the fourth of July and laughing as zombies changed gears and shuffled for him instead. 

It wasn’t a part of the plan, they had a very specific one laid out and Brock rebuffed it all the way to the end. Jack stilled in shock with the others as he listened to the bike hit block after block. The drone of engine carried on through the practically silent city that held nothing but hungry groans and Jack almost bought it, _almost_ until wheels screeched somewhere in the distance and the echo of it bounced off high tower walls.

He reacted, went to find out and fought off everyone that held him back and it was the blow to the back of his head that finally stopped him, he’s sure it was Bucky, the only one there when he awoke, laid out on a small cot with guilty eyes keeping a vigil on him. 

“There was no body. The bike was totaled and there was a blood trail but it ended up being nothing. I’m guessing it was when he got caught. Jack, I’m sorry.” 

Missing corpses weren’t guaranteed proof of someone still alive with the undead around but it also didn’t mean they were dead. Bucky presses his hand against his and Jack doesn’t feel it, completely numb on the surface and when his friend leaves the small space of a tent he’s in, he looks down to dog tags stained with a faint tint of red that he could already tell was Brock’s, a nondescript silver ring looped along with it and he only stares for hours. 

 

He’s lost time since then and Spring completes its visit, they move north and he’s automated for the most part, occasionally coming back to life to speak and eat but nothing tastes the same even if it hadn’t really before, at least he could pretend it was good back when Brock complained enough for the both of them and eyeballed burnt ends of whatever meat he had on a stick to see if it was cooked thorough enough. 

It was the company they kept, and how it was warm between them no matter how cold it was but now Jack couldn’t stop amassing layers to keep warm. He goes with the motions and maybe he’s a bit more reckless but the job gets done either way, he provides and helps and does what’s needed to keep them all together but he never forgets.

They settle and integrate with a bigger group, one that forges for a heavily barricaded safe zone in the space of an abandoned small town. It takes time but with all hands working they manage and create, Jack always keeps Brock at the forefront of his mind though, never wants to let it go but he really feels affected when befriending Wanda and finding out she lost her twin but sees the lines of worry on her face as she asks him when he’s last eaten and he can’t remember that far. 

He works on it, or tries, some days fall too hard on him but he does in some way, even if his horrible beard and his shaky fingers tell him he should try harder. He does eat though and begins to work out again, takes time to stare at the dog tags every night and have some time with them as whatever light there is glints off his own ring. 

 

The snow plays havoc on his mental state when it first arrives and he’s not sure if hoping Brock is warm is a sign of him losing his mind or if it’s part of his grieving but he constantly thinks about it as he stares up at the flakes coming down around their little safe haven. 

 

He’s staring at a Barton’s handwriting against the backdrop of dim light deep in the armory when the man himself comes clamoring down the stairs, eyes almost wide as saucers and signaling at him while at the same time trying to catch his breath, bow hanging off his shoulder haphazardly and hands becoming _more_ animated the longer Jack just watches him. 

Finally he just rips the coat sitting on the chair and manhandles Jack into it and that’s a feat in itself as they both go running up the stairs as he still tries figuring out why Clint’s acting like he’s in such a hurry to show him something.

“Barton, aren’t you supposed to be on duty right- ”

“Hey! Get yer fuckin’ hands offa me!” 

Jack stops in shock, head snapping up at the voice, distant and somewhere outside as hands fell uselessly to his sides like he’s been debilitated. The person is most likely by the front gates and he _knows_ the owner, his mouth instantly going dry. 

He remembers the last dream he had, of Brock laying in bed and pulling Jack closer to him. He ends up falling in against him, their foreheads pressed up together. He knows it’s a bit of a juvenile gesture but Brock only gives him a quiet smile as copper golds stare at him like he matters the most and Jack can’t deny anything for this man, the warm gentle breeze brushing along their hair as he fights himself to stay in that world before it’s painfully taken away again.

Jack takes one step and he staggers, Clint’s arm coming up but doing nothing and Jack moves again to the sound of Brock struggling, throwing open the door and stepping out into the snow. 

Another door across the way opens and he can tell without looking that it’s Bucky struggling with his coat and the moment Jack sees that figure Sam’s struggling to keep a hold on, he _knows for sure_. It’s when his legs break out into a run and Brock’s eyes meet over Sam’s shoulder. He’s worse for wear and thinner but that gaze is vibrant and real, recognition hitting immediately, Jack almost stumbles because of it, legs not cooperating through slush and snow. 

Brock manages to rip out of Sam’s hands and Jack half engulfs and half falls into Brock’s arms. He can feel that Brock’s real and solid and his lips are pressing along the side of his head, into a mess of dark hair, holding him so very tight. 

“Shit Jack, you’re ‘ere! You’re fuckin’ real- ”

Brock is here and Jack has no words, only that he’s alive and in his arms where he should’ve been all along instead of pulling that stupid stunt and Jack thinking he died because of it. There was nothing that could have gotten him to believe Brock would come back to him, no matter how much he missed him. 

Jack only pulls back to look at Brock’s weather harried face, they both wear thick unkempt beards but it doesn’t even matter with their eyes holding so much and he kisses him fiercely. His hands slide up, cupping Brock’s face, remembers how he’s always loved to kiss him this way and Brock’s own hands catch at his winter coat, fingers tangling desperately around the material.

Brock shivers against him, curling further in, his face burying into Jack’s neck as he did the same, both breathing each other in and despite the fact Brock hadn’t been near a proper bath for a while Jack could still get something out of him, smell that it was him and it became more real that he wasn’t just going through a motion of another overly realistic dream. He heard Brock gasp into him, inhaling wetly as fingers tightened and Jack could only hold him like he was his own lifeline.

“God, Jackie..love you. Can’t believe it..”

“I love you too.” He murmured next to Brock’s ear as they tried to make heads or tails of it all.

Sam folded his arms over his chest, Natasha sidled in beside him, Clint and Bucky at their other side and others were there but those four were the only ones Jack could register at the time being though Steve and Bruce should have been there but he had no plans to ask at the moment.

“What happened?” Jack whispered, nose brushing Brock’s hair. His hands cradled Brock’s jaw and lifted his head a little so that Jack was staring right at him. “I thought you were dead.”

Brock’s face was ashen, a fresh shallow cut at his cheek and caked blood at his temple. It was only then that he realized he was leaning into Jack like it was the only thing holding him up and he gained just how exhausted he must have been. 

Looking past him, Rhodey and Thor look over two horses, one thinner than the other and obviously traveling for days, side saddles held meager supplies and Natasha stepped in a foot closer catching Jack’s eye, her gun reholstered. “He came with a pregnant woman and her husband. Clint said he recognized this one, why he didn’t fire a warning shot but we didn’t know who he was and we had to make sure, yelling like he was and probably attracting more undead. We’ve seen raiders use the pregnant woman trick before, you know that Jack.” 

Nodding because he did, he realized that’s where Bruce and Steve were, his attention coming back to Brock as his hands shook and he just kept staring at him, Jack only stared back.

“They, uh saved me. I crashed the bike but it was on purpose, plan was to crash it and loop around ‘em the long way and give you all time to get goin’ then I coulda come back but I fucked it up and hit my head, they were on my ass so I had to think fast. I headed away and hid out, I fucked up Jackie. I had a concussion and passed out. Next thing I know I’m goin’ in and out, someone’s tellin’ me to relax, I had some wounds and I could see they were bandaged and I’m sorry. I jus listened and let ‘em take care of me, didn’t think about the group, knew I’d find ya again soon. By the time I could move, you were all long gone an it was jus the two of ‘em and the gal takin’ care of me needed help. It was easier for us to take turns for watch and work our way North trackin’ you all, I owed ‘em. I- ”

“Hey shh, you’re here. They’re being looked after and you all made it and here,” Jack fumbled with the ball chains around his neck, untangling a specific one from the other and looping it around Brock’s neck, ring still attached as he stared at it. “I kept it safe for you.” 

Brock stared down, a trembling hand cupping the tags, thumb tracing the ring, “Shit, I thought I lost it..”

“Can’t rid of this marriage that easily.” Jack jokes, tone flat but a faint smile making up for it. 

“Fuck,” Brock broke out in a laugh that went a little hysterical, “That ain’t fair, ya look like a damn Sasquatch.” 

Jack grins, leaning in to press a kiss to Brock’s forehead, “Yeah well I hate to tell you but you look like hell and smell like horse shit, it’s really disgusting.” They both lean back and stare at each other again, “You’re still the only one I want to spend the rest of my life with though.”

“Still sappy too. Jesus how are you still alive with the zombies around?”

“Power of love?” Jack muttered and everyone within earshot groaned as he pulled Brock in, gripping him tighter to his chest as they hugged each other under a veil of rapidly falling snow and way too many curious survivors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack go home, you're lame.


	2. Cannibalism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the droid you are looking for, Ineswrites. ;) (Still finding an idea for that list lol)

Brock turned his head only a slight when there’s a weighted knock at the propped open back door and a smirk crosses his lips before he meets eyes with Jack stepping into the weak stream of fall sunlight trying to settling inside.

“Hey, I got you some fresh meat for your stew, hope I wasn’t too late in dropping by.” 

Brock’s eyes linger over Jack a few moments, he has a large bag slung over one shoulder, it’s a little dirty, stained in patches of reds and browns but he knows the meat inside is wrapped in a layer of plastic. He could only imagine some type of sanitation inspector giving him grief for it but out here people don’t care much about things like that. 

Jack looks good today, like he always does, a black woolen cap over his head and eyes a mossy green today. Brock’s always lost in how strong he is when he’s hefting cuts, a quiet smile across his handsome face that’s so endearing he admires a little longer before he goes back to his root vegetables.

“Ain’t ever late, today’s batch is already been simmerin’ for a few hours now. Just leave some out in the fridge like usual and the rest in the freezer, yeah?” 

Jack nods and hoists the bag further over his shoulder, striding towards the prep area for the set of keys at the end of the table before turning for the walk-in freezer. He undoes the padlock, letting himself in and disappears from Brock’s field of vision.

Finishing up the carrots, celery and onions, Brock starts at the potatoes next needing to peel and chop a good few for gnocchi as well, so he loses himself into that. He has an hour yet to open the front doors of the shop and thirty minutes before anyone’s in for their shift. 

Brock’s doling out a generous helping of stew after the potatoes are ready and stored in a large bowl of water when Jack returns out from the freezer, setting the dish down at the end of the table beside a chunk of bread and some water, a napkin and spoon waiting in the wings. 

“I locked the door back up and arranged all the packages for you, it was getting a little messy in there.” 

Brock nods and kicks at the stool, “Thanks, now sit down and tell me what you think.”

Jack gives him a look that Brock knows means he should already know what he thinks because he’s constantly asking but he likes seeing Jack eat, so sue him. Before he can move away completely a warm hand wraps around his forearm and he glances back as Jack stares up at him, “Should come to work with me one day.” 

They go through this song and dance every time, Brock’s here full time and he’d love to but he’s gotta sleep. Still, there are times he lays in bed thinking about Jack and what he’s doing right then, how he could be out with him assisting.

“I’d get in yer way.” Brock says, shoving the idea away like always.

The pads of Jack’s fingers slide along skin and Brock holds back a shiver.

“One day you’ll say yes.” Jack declares lowly with a wink as his hand falls back onto his lap and he scoots the stool closer to the table, “Looks good, this is always my favorite meal.” 

Shaking his head, Brock shrugs, “You always say that.” There’s a slight splatter of dark red at the underside of Jack’s jaw and Brock pulls the dish towel off his shoulder to lick the corner of the cloth and dab at the stain, “I know you don’t think much of it but havin’ blood on yer face while talkin’ to people ain’t somethin’ you should be doin’.” 

Jack’s subtle grin goes wider and it makes him look a bit mischievous, Brock goes back to the herbs laid out and avoids meeting the other man’s gaze.

He only dares to look when Jack’s eating, lost in his meal and the bread affixed in his right hand with a bite already taken out of it. He wants to spend the day watching Jack eat and would if he could, a satisfied hum escaping from time to time that Brock absolutely takes to heart. 

When Brock’s about ready to take the last batch of loaves out to the front, Jack’s dishes are in the sink and he’s so close that Brock almost startles, turning and giving him a glare. “Stop that.” 

He knows Jack won’t but he doesn’t mind the squeeze of a hand at his shoulder, it’s new when it lingers and slowly makes his way to the back of his neck, light and gentle. “Stew was delicious today, thank you.” 

In a way Brock knows that but he still wonders over and over again even if he’s gotten a few years of this under his belt. He knew in order to avoid too many people nosing around and gaining too much attention onto himself that somewhere small and unremarkable was the way to go. Sure he’s had travel and food hosts come in and sample his locally famous dish and many have asked what he does that makes his stew taste so good. 

All he really does is smile, sometimes to Jack if he’s around when it happens, and just tells the person or group that the secret is in the meat and how they treat it. 

Jack’s hand feels comforting and he readjusts the tray he’s holding before it slips and then he’s stepping out to the front of a small little bakery that sells mainly sandwiches and soups but also by popular demand, the stew. 

Sliding the tray onto one of the shelves for customers to help themselves at, Brock dusts his hands off and checks the time at the clock just above the them, “Well, we have thirty minutes ‘til openin’ time, before anyone comes in for work you should tell me who you’ve brought for me for tomorrow’s lunch customers.” 

Jack only smiles the way he always does when he actually does feel like smiling, like he knows something no one else does except now Brock supposes he does and reaches out to take his hand as they sit down at one of the tables. He’s all ears as he glances momentarily out the window, the sun fighting with the clouds as shoppers bundle in tighter with their coats.

Jack’s thumb lightly grazes against his skin and Brock glances back to regard him, green eyes watching, “I only kill who I think is the best for you, Brock. You deserve nothing less.”

Brock stares at him a long while, fingers intertwining. Maybe tomorrow he'll go with Jack just so he can finally get the chance to be shown his work, just for curiosities sake. He owes him at least that much for making his little place popular enough to have a decent life here and well, Jack's never been bad company either.


	3. Forced Marriage

At the moment, the only light streaming into their room was that of the moon.

The rest of it is left dark save for a candle placed here and there but burned so close to the nub they barely flickered.

Brock prefers it that way anyway. He doesn’t want to look around the room and take in all the details. Doesn’t want to see how he looks in any reflection and how he would stare around where there wouldn’t be patches of black abyss as he tried to focus on anything else. 

Jack is also in the room as him though, he commands any space he’s a part of and this one is no exception. Mostly he is still, seated by the side corner, only movement Brock can read is his arm shifting every so often to take a sip from his goblet and there are no other actions following after. The light manages to reach the tip of the man’s boot but that is all it can have and despite all rumors the prince is kind and fair just like his father with handsomely distinguished features and anyone that were to marry him would be so lucky to be his.

Brock keeps trying to tell himself so.

He doesn’t feel lucky, and with the lack of movement from where Jack is, the sentiment seems mutual. He only sits and wastes time away in his chair and it makes Brock unsure if eyes watch him or if they focus on something else entirely. 

“Is this how you meet all your guests in the bedroom?” Jack finally asks.

Brock tries not to make a face, the last thing he was told is not to make a fuss but he wants to. Jack himself has no tunic on, removing it shortly after his arrival and muttering blandly about too many people but aside for that he does nothing. Brock on the other hand sits against his heels on their nuptial bed, knees tucked under him and hands resting on his lap naked as the day he was born because this is _their_ bed chambers now and he has a duty to please his husband..even if he would rather not do anything of the sort. 

Unfortunately despite being a prince in his own merit, he has no say and a marriage to extend peace across their lands was too important for his own father to pass up. 

“Only ones I’m married to ‘cuz it’s expected.” Brock almost hisses out but manages to keep his tone even.

Jack sighs and goes back to his wine, “There’s plenty of time for that, if we even get there.” 

Brock watches, unsure of what his game is here. He’s had people out collecting every bit of information there is about Prince Jack and to his irritation it’s all good and wholesome; everyone has secrets though and apparently he needs more time to uncover his husband’s.

Jack finished off what’s in his cup and seems to turn his way again. He slowly eases out of his chair and stands, approaching just enough to be basked in the moonlight. He’s toned and athletic as trousers sit low at his hips and very easy on the eyes like this Brock finds.

“There’s plenty of time for that.”

“You already said that.” Brock frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t want to be here.” 

Which is true, his eyes scrutinizing, examining Jack just like the day they met in the main court. He really doesn’t want to be here, on these lands, in this kingdom. He can’t even go home, he would be forced into exile, already warned not to embarrass them.

“Nor do you.” Brock counters. 

He knows he’s not the prince’s first choice, he had been told as much so that he put in the extra effort to win his husband’s affections or he would have a fate worse than this. Right now though, he’s not sure if he wouldn’t mind said fate as he’s being watched closely, Jack’s expression stoic and eyes steely. Brock wants the heat to stop flushing across his skin as the seconds tick by, his fingers tucked under palms as they drape over his lap though they dig into his flesh to try and distract himself.

“Which means we have plenty of time.”

It has to be a ruse, some kind of game where Brock is eased into some level of security before Jack takes what is his and has every right to while his betrothed has none.

A part of him wishes he would stop this charade and consummate their marriage so he can forget and sleep it off but Jack does nothing but move in, careful and slow, seating himself at the end of the large bed. Brock’s skin prickles and his instincts reel to move, he doesn’t though, keeping himself as still as possible and drawing in a quiet breath to hold it.

“Brock. We need time.”

He exhales, dropping his eyes to his lap, a light sound of a strained whimper slipping out with it and color washes over his cheeks. He went to wars and battled alongside his countrymen, he was no blushing bride and if it didn’t break the treaty, he would slit Jack’s throat and escape to the mountains the second he had the chance. He has no time for riddles, his sentence has begun and he’s only a puppet to be played with so their lands can come together and be at peace. It’s the only reason he’s here.

Unfortunately, he has no option but to appease the prince, his _husband_ , and he raises his gaze again, “Am I not temptin’ you enough to take what’s yours?”

Jack looks offended, lips pursed in a thin line and it seems to answer Brock’s query, shoulders falling in displeasure. He supposes Jack will have a mistress or two to keep him satisfied, at least that could possibly be a silver lining to this.

“You were- I mean _are_ tempting enough. You have been,” Brock looks up as Jack falters, watching him stare off to find words, “They gave me a choice, I chose you but I only found out you were forced into this after the fact. I would not have agreed to marrying you if I had known you did not want to be with me.”

Brock glances away, eyes dropping to the gold and red spun across bed covers, lost in his head and he’s not sure how long he does this before a blanket is draped across his shoulders, warm and soft and Jack is sat down beside him only close enough to be of assistance despite Brock feeling the heat radiating off his body.

“You are shaking.” He murmurs lightly. “And this is why we need time.” 

Jack doesn’t dare touch him aside from that gesture, one hand holding something in a cloth, while both of Brock’s rest on his thighs and attempting nothing else. 

Feeling trapped and unhappy, Brock only shakes his head, pulling the blanket tight around and covering himself up, “Ain’t no choice.”

He can see Jack nod to the side of him, “I am sorry.”

The whole situation suddenly feels upside down, anger and resentment lingering but suddenly not for this man beside him and more towards everyone else that forced his hand and to an extent, tricked Jack’s.

Brock refuses to look his way, “If I had a choice..maybe.” He pauses and swallows, glancing towards the window harboring the moon, “Maybe I woulda chosen ya.” 

Jack is silent and curious, Brock peeks to his side and thinks that maybe the prince is smiling. It’s small but it’s something and there’s a small sensation within Brock that blooms, he’s not sure what to make of it and even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to do.

“Would you like- ”

Voice breaking into Brock’s thoughts, Jack raises the hand that’s cradling the cloth to reveal he’s been brought over a dariole for him.

“You ate almost nothing during dinner, I thought maybe it would do you good to have a bite.”

Shame lights up within Brock even if he also wants to argue and put up a fight just out of stubborn spite for being here but he has no fire for it, instead taking the palm sized tart without looking Jack’s way.

“I want us to try, since we cannot break this off, at least not right now. I just need you to give me more time.”

Brock is tempted to eat but his gaze lands on the contemplative look across Jack’s face, fingers wanting to touch the scar grazing the side of it, “And if time ain’t on our side?”

He turns his head so they meet and Brock finds no breath to take, “Then you are free to do as you wish with my blessing, if you truly would like to leave, you can. As of now though, you are not a prisoner despite being forced to me, you are still a prince here as you were there except now you are my consort and this is your home as much as it is mine.”

Brock purses his lips, wants to tell him it’s not the same at all but for once, in this light, Jack’s eyes are soft and earnest, not sharp and calculating like they tend to be out in the public eye and Brock can’t seem to force himself to get that far with his words. He lets the dariole rest on the blanket and instead of answering reaches his hand out to rest against Jack’s, a small twitch of a spark or something equally as surprising blinks between them despite how cautious he feels.

There’s surprise in Jack’s eyes then a seemingly large wave of relief washing over soon after, fingers curling around but not closing over his and they don’t say anything for the time being only allowing the moon to watch over them and Brock hopes that finally, _hopefully_ , he’s somewhere he can possibly call home.


	4. Doppleganger

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, they had seen all this stuff before. The cryo chambers were normally empty in the HYDRA bases they’ve been wiping out across the world. It’s routine and almost something they do with ingrained automatic movements. 

Brock doesn’t realize today’s different, not until Jack’s almost inaudible footsteps pause as Brock can feel his eyes sweep across to the left through a room filled with rows of pods. When he doesn’t say anything but also doesn’t continue moving with him, Brock catching his weapon lowering from the corner of his eye, he turns back and his finger taps at the comm in his ear, “We got somethin’, Cap.”

He doesn’t even have to look to know that’s whats up, he knows Jack’s body language all too eerily well and after Steve responds, he finally turns the way Jack’s fixated, three rows down there’s a small green illuminated light on a panel in a sea of unlit technology and that itself causes Brock to raise his hand up and switch the direction of their sweep. The flanking formation of three others that includes Wilson with them, shift and they’re moving straight for it. He leads the way and once closer, he sees a block of numbers and a year, accompanied with a red cursor blinking for authorization after it. There’s a scroll of files and words flashing in the background, an info dump they’ve already gone through upstairs. 

“Is there someone in there, Rumlow?”

Everyone’s holding their breath, even Rogers as he waits for an answer while he carefully steps forward and peers into the dark chamber. Beside him Jack mulls over the keypad entering codes and commands, a light inside of the tank suddenly illuminating more than Brock was ever prepared for, his heart caught in his throat.

There’s no man inside, there’s no woman inside. Only a small boy with his eyes closed. He has moppy brown hair that under the harsh lighting almost looks ginger in some places and Brock is struck with how familiar he is with that observation because he’s had the same thought over and over again for years when he looks at-

He turns to Jack, hands still on the keys but he’s not looking there anymore, just at the boy inside with the color drained from his face and he jaw clenched tight.

“..Guys?”

A third joins them, Sam easing in without being obtrusive as he gets in a closer look and clears off some of the dust from the top of the glass and only stares. Brock knows the kid looks familiar to Wilson but he can’t pinpoint why, it’s confirmed when he pulls back and looks to Jack, then to Brock himself and holds a confused expression because it’s more than obvious Jack knows more than anyone. Brock too.

Swallowing thickly, he licks his lips and glances at Sam just as he taps his earpiece again, “It’s uh, a..there’s a kid ‘n ‘ere, Cap. And ain’t any kid, I recognize ‘im.” 

There’s a pause of unease and then a whoosh of a heavy exasperated sigh.

“If you’re about to tell me there’s a child clone of the Winter Soldier in there or something- ”

“It ain’t Barnes.” Brock cuts in, glancing furtively towards Jack then back to Sam, “It’s of Rollins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..And then Jack raises a clone of himself because he would much to Brock's dismay.


	5. Slave

Brock stays still in the encroaching dusky shadows not allowed to move even if he wished to see what all the buzzing was about. He’s under punishment and instructed to sit absolutely still on his knees in only his torn trousers at the tiny alcove hidden away from the rest of the room until his master arrives but he’s growing tired of this and actively pondering a way to free himself. The chains he’s been shackled with are heavy and he’s sore perched like he is with arms bound back, one large chain connecting them with the back of his collared restraint.

“I’m fine, it’s fine just _leave it_.” 

Brock’s eyes shift off the wall before him and towards the voice, his pulse jumps and it’s Jack, irritated and tired sounding and there’s soft murmurs of other voices before footsteps are exiting the Prince’s quarters. Brock holds his breath and waits for the sound of the door shutting though it never comes, it’s silent and he wonders what happened until a very familiar drawer opens and he perks, if only a little bit. Footsteps approach, too light to be Jack’s and when the figure steps into the fading light of the sunset, Barton appears with keys in hand and a kindly smile. 

Oh yes, the _archer_. He doesn’t return the greeting, he’s still unsure about a lot of the court here, it’s been weeks but he still remembers the day he arrived, bought for a pittance because he was too unruly, too violent. They would have sent him off to be killed if he hadn’t been bought up and he was still unsure of why. 

“Now don’t bite me like you did Ward. I get that he was hecklin’ ya but I wanna keep m’fingers. Alright?” 

Brock says nothing but relaxes his shoulders in hopes it’s answer enough. It prompts Barton to exhale heavily and step close just enough to undo the bindings and leave Brock rubbing at sore wrists and aching shoulders as he unfolds his legs out from under him. 

Barton only comes back again very quickly, a tray set down on the floor next to him of fruit and bread, as well as a few good pieces of roasted lamb. His mouth immediately waters, stomach gurgling and desperate for something and he doesn’t wait, shoving bits of meat into his mouth and grasping a portion of bread in hand. 

“Hey. Hey slow down you- ”

Barton means well but instincts kick in the moment his shoulder is touched, Brock’s forearm striking the extended arm at the elbow to cause it to bent outward and bring the man in closer before he’s hooking his arm to keep the archer close, his other pressing the end of the jagged shank bone to his throat, digging just enough into vulnerable flesh to mean it, a growl emanating from the back of Brock’s throat in warning. 

“ _Brock_.” Jack cuts in through the heaviness of silence, no footsteps, which means he’s still at the bed, “Whatever you’re doing, _do not_.”

Brock pauses, fingers twitching as Barton stays increasingly still, heart pounding so hard Brock can see the pulse where the bone digs and hands sit raised in surrender. Slowly Brock releases him, dropping his eyes in very mild apology and returning back to his food. He hates that tone with Jack, _disappointment_ he thinks is what it’s called. He hates knowing the way he looks unhappy, regretting his decision to take him in, keeping him as a pleasure slave but never laying a finger on him. Instead he does what he does and Brock is protected by the castle walls and stays in his _master’s_ quarters. 

It was fine until he would defend himself, fight back, retaliate from others invading the Prince’s space while he wasn’t there. It’s why the chains came, why he wasn’t fed until Jack would return or he was limited to one meal if he wouldn’t for some time. Barton was mainly the one who did it, or Buchanan. He was wary around both but the latter always kept his distance how Brock liked, they had a way of being around each other and it caused Brock to relax more with him than this one now who stood and stared, hand pressed to his throat.

“He tried to stab me.” 

“Well,” Jack called from across the quarters, “Maybe he shouldn’t be provided with a weapon, besides I’m sure you provoked him.” 

Barton pursed his lips, stomping away to go and speak to Jack, “He could have choked, he was eating so fast.”

Brock tilted his head, listening as he bit into the apple sitting there for him.

“Let him choke, you can react then and he knows how to ask for help. He’s just not used to being touched, not in a decent way like you meant. You know that Clint, be careful.” 

Barton grumbled something and left the room, the door finally making the telltale sign that they were finally alone and there was a rustling noise before more silence, Brock quickly finishing up the last bit of his meal before waiting again, night quickly settling into the space and the soft light of candle flames lit up the main area of the room, though not quite reaching the tiny space for Brock to be. 

“Everyone’s gone.”

Brock raised his head again towards the general direction of Jack’s voice again, softer this time and he felt himself swallow as he eased himself up onto both legs, hesitating as he regained proper feeling in them and smoothed out his trousers the best he could. He wasn’t above stabbing someone the Prince evidently trusted but being in his sole audience was different because he already had enough time to see something in Jack that he liked, could someone find trust in.

Approaching carefully, he made his way through the room, shadows wrapping around his legs as the candles danced around him and there Jack was, sat out on a large bed and several luxurious pillows cradling his back. He’s wounded and Brock doesn’t like that, bandages wrapped around the Prince’s chest with stains of red, one leg propped up with one pillow under his foot and the ankle wrapped tight.

Jack’s gaze is just as intent, studying him before he leans further back against the nest of pillows, “It’s not that bad.” 

The line of Brock’s mouth goes tighter and Jack puts a hand out for him. Briefly his mind flashes warning signs that it could be a trap and could be used against him like before but he wants to this time. Jack’s been gone for two days and he wondered and waited. He’s never been invited onto the bed and usually it means bad things when he is.

Jack’s hand falls, rests back on his good leg and he only quirks a brow when Brock finally does join, the bedding soft under his knees that are in absolute pain. He doesn’t complain though, especially when Jack looks surprised, another bandage above his brow, and scrapes litter his face. His chest is mottled in dark bruises he can really see in detail close up as he keeps next to him but doesn’t dare touch.

“You’re..hurt.” Brock points out, narrowing his eyes at a large blotch of darkness over the shoulder closest to him. His voice is gravelly from disuse, fingers tracing it without the contact of skin more curious and committing it to memory.

Jack merely shrugs, “I was thrown off my horse, was lucky to avoid the lance coming at me afterward. He wasn’t as lucky once I got him off his.”

He looks pleased about the outcome and Brock sits puzzled. Never seeing the Prince in battle, he can only imagine what entailed and despite not knowing, he finds he doesn’t like it. He’s been to tournaments, seen riders fight for the cheers of crowds, he imagines when you aren’t playing it’s very ruthless and a costly mistake can mean death which he does not agree with when it comes to this man sitting next to him.

“Let me see?” Jack asks, pushing through Brock’s thoughts suddenly and he peers back at green eyes waiting patiently.

Quite easily Jack could demand to see but he never does, only once or twice has he actually commanded Brock and that was so he wouldn’t get into any more trouble than he already had that day.

Slowly Brock extends his arms out, inner wrists pointing upwards and Jack makes a disappointed sound as he studies them, “You can’t be trouble every time I’m not here, I can’t stop them from restraining you. You know that, don’t you?”

Swallowing, Brock avoids his eyes but frowns anyway eventually nodding to his query.

A lingering moment later, Jack moves some of the pillows out from behind him and tosses them to the empty side, “I’m tired, I need sleep. If you promise not to strangle me you can stay.”

Brock only stares in question as Jack doesn’t wait for a response, pulling the covers over his waist and getting comfortable. He blows out the closest candle and really does settle into bed for sleep leaving Brock to sit there and contemplate his next move. 

In the end he wants to stay here, feels an urge to watch over the Prince as he rests like other nights but this time he has a chance to be next to him and he wants to keep that. 

He hesitates to touch him and only does when he knows Jack is entirely gone for the night and his light snores fill the large chambers. His hand cautiously reaches out, fingers a soft tremble before finally touching light strands of dark hair, brushing them away from his forehead, elsewhere from the shallow cut partially disappearing into his hairline. It’s red and angry but healing away quietly, his fingers drifting along and smoothing out along the top of his head. 

It amazes him that Jack trusts him enough to sleep around him, Brock surveys the space and within arms reach there are at least five things he could immediately fashion into weapons to kill him with. Yet he sleeps, the harsh lines at his brow are currently gone, his face smooth and so many years younger like this. Brock takes his time to look, to watch him curiously. 

His hands rest against a softly rising stomach before going back up again and without thinking it through, Brock lays himself out. It’s only for a moment, just to see what it’s like to lay next to Jack, a hand resting lightly against one of his and he closes his eyes once he settles. It’s only for a few minutes, no harm in it.

Brock only wakes when there’s sunlight streaming on his face and warmth, so much warmth against him, birds chirping noisily away and as he pushes himself up to rub his eyes an arm tightens around him which immediately becomes cause for alarm.

Eyes snapping open, he’s surprised to see Buchanan standing next to the bed with a smirk across his face like he always does when he knows something others don’t. All he does is lift a gloved hand to his lips and gives him a playful wink before exiting and leaving Brock alone with the Prince once again. His gaze switches to the expression of sheer calm across Jack’s face, still lost in a fit of sleep and he can only stare in awe over how oddly wonderful this is if only just temporary. 

Brock knows when Jack wakes again the world will settle back into a certain order where he is nothing but a slave and Jack is no one but his master, but at least here for now, he lets himself feel like he’s free again.


End file.
